


skinny love

by sagexbrush



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Stiles is a ghost, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 14:09:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7760914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagexbrush/pseuds/sagexbrush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why are you holding on Stiles?" she asks, and for the first time she tries to touch him. Her fingers pass through his cheek, only a cold feeling to show he existed at all. </p><p>"Unfinished business," he says.</p><p>"What unfinished business?" her heart is in her throat as she speaks the words, the room getting colder.</p><p>"I think you know," he whispers.<br/>.<br/>.<br/>.</p><p>(or stiles is a ghost)</p>
            </blockquote>





	skinny love

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoy

 

 

_come on skinny love what happened here?_

            Lydia Martin, renowned mathematician and actual genius, doesn’t believe in ghosts.

            So when the real estate agent warns her that the previous owner had died, Lydia doesn’t think twice about it before buying the house.

            Just because the poor sop had died doesn’t mean that her house is automatically _haunted_. Besides, this was Beacon Hills. When she was in high school, dozens of people had died due to mysterious ‘animal attacks’. By that logic, half the houses in this town were probably haunted.

            “I’m so happy you’re moving back,” her mother begins once she enters the room with a stack of boxes, “but are you sure about this house?”

            “Why does everyone ask that?” Lydia rolls her eyes, “I don’t believe in ghosts. Ghosts are fables. If the guy died, he _died_.” She doesn’t hear her mother’s whispered _but you knew him_ because she’s busy unpacking her silverware and wondering the big question – _why_?

            Why was she really back in Beacon Hills?

* * *

 

            She sleeps in her house the first night, on a mattress laid flat on the floor.

            She’s just about to drop off to sleep when the lights flicker on in her room.

            “What the hell?” she mutters, getting to her feet to turn it off. As soon as she flicks the switch however, it goes right back on.

            The lights seems to be laughing at her as she slams her hand down on it again, and it shuts off for good.

            “Problems with the electricity,” she murmurs to herself, “put that on my to do list.”

* * *

 

            The next day, she wakes up to find that several of the glasses that she had barely put away in cabinets had fallen to the ground and shattered.

            She sweeps up the shards, and notices that some of the cabinet doors are open. She must have forgotten to close them and then –

            Then what? The glasses decided to leap merrily from their shelves? She squares her shoulders. Ghosts _weren’t_ real, she reminds herself.

            “I’m all alone in here,” she tells the air, and decides that today she’s going to go mental on the house. Cleaning, scrubbing – _everything_.

* * *

 

            “Lydia – Lydia Martin?” the girl jogging past her house is instantly familiar, and Lydia finds a budding sense of warmth leaping up through her chest.

            “Allison!” she says happily, descending from her porch (where she had been scraping off leaves and bugs) to where the other girl is standing in her athletic gear.

            “I didn’t know you were moving back here,” Allison says, her dimples lighting up and her brown eyes sparkling. She looks different to Lydia however, _harder_ somehow.

            “It was kind of a random decision,” she says, shrugging.

            “So did you move into this house?” Allison’s eyes look at the house beyond and something inside her _tenses_ – like this house reminds Allison of _something_.

            “You’re not going to tell me it’s haunted, are you?” Lydia rolls her eyes, “I know the last owner died – “

            “Not the owner, his son,” Allison corrects absent mindedly, her eyes fixated on the front door like she’s a million miles away.

            “Oh,” Lydia’s voice is small, “Um – “

            Allison snaps out of whatever she’s been thinking about and instead shoots Lydia a dazzling smile, “Would you like to come over for dinner some time?” she asks.

            “Sure,” Lydia agrees.

            After they exchange numbers, Allison is jogging off again, her dark curls bouncing merrily behind her.

* * *

 

            She builds her furniture and puts her books on shelves and hangs her clothes in the closet.

            She puts metal latches on her cabinets (it’s been several nights that glasses have taken dives off the shelves onto the floor) and locks on the doors. She goes to the paint store and repaints the walls.

            Accidents keep happening, blue paint spilling onto the floor like tears, her shower sputtering when she’s not in it, the floorboards creaking and the windows rattling in their frames.

            Lydia’s known to be stubborn if she wants to be however, and she pursues her remodeling of the house with a fierce sort of fury, scrubbing everything. She cleans up paint, turns off her shower, has someone come and tighten the floorboards so they stop squeaking.

            She is almost _warring_ with the house, but she’ll be damned if she lets it win.

* * *

 

            Scott and Allison live in a new house with squeaky-clean floors and spotless appliances they entire place has the air of a perfect married couple.

            “So how are you liking the new house Lydia?” Scott asks, but there are other motives in his eyes, something hidden and _dangerous_.

            “Other than everyone reminding me that it’s haunted, it’s _great_ ,” Lydia says, twisting one pasta noodle around her fork.

            Scott avoids her eyes.

            If she remembers correctly, he’s always been _weird,_ Scott McCall, the boy who followed Allison around like she was his drug, along with his faithful sidekick – she can’t put her finger on his name for the _life_ of her –

            “Where’s that best friend that used to hang out with you all the time?” she says before they can ask her any more questions about her house. _the best friend that was in the school with us on the night we all nearly died._

            Scott stares so determinedly at his water glass that Lydia’s concerned that he’s trying to use telekinesis to levitate it before Allison answers.

            “He died,” she says shortly, the words dropping like a bomb, “remember?”

            Truthfully, a lot of people died in high school.

            She tries to picture him, but all she gets is a faint recollection of a buzz cut and an overeager voice.

            “I’m sorry,” she says honestly, “I didn’t - “

            “It’s fine,” Scott says too fast, his hand tightening on his fork convulsively. _Well this is great,_ Lydia thinks to herself, deciding to add this onto the list of things to never think about – because the awkward tension is mounting as high as the sky and they haven’t’ even gotten to dessert yet.

* * *

 

            Allison still runs on her street every day, and she stops periodically by Lydia’s house, where Lydia makes her a cup of coffee and they talk about whatever they’ve been up to.

            “So why did you move here?” Allison finally asks, as Lydia explains what she does for a living – “It seems like there were better job opportunities in Boston.”

            Lydia frowns. It should be an easy question, she thinks, the answer hovering at the tip of her tongue, but she can’t for the _life_ of her tell what that answer is supposed to be.

            So instead she shrugs, “I don’t know,” she says honestly, “something was drawing me here.”

* * *

 

            She has a plumber over to look at the shower.

            “Nothing’s wrong with it,” he says in an exasperated sort of way, “are you sure you’re not leaving it on?”

(She doesn’t give him a good tip.)

* * *

 

            The animal attacks begin to start up again, and Allison’s visits by her house get less frequent, and when she does stop by – the other girl seems stressed.

            “This town,” she only murmurs when Lydia inquires.

           She’s putting her groceries in the trunk of her car when the shape comes out of nowhere.

            It’s a large creature, and it pauses briefly to sink it’s teeth into her side before it leaves her for dead – sprawled across the parking lot like road kill abandoned at the side of a road.

            (Someone finds her later, much later, after the cold from the asphalt has started to bleed into her heart.)

* * *

           When she wakes up, Scott McCall is peeking under her bandages, and she’s suddenly aware that she’s in a hospital room and most decidedly _not_ in her new house.

            She lets out a little cry of alarm and Scott tapes the bandage back into place and leaps about five feet backwards (an impressive feat) and gives her his best innocent puppy dog stare.

            She pulls up the covers to her chin and _glares_ at him.

            “And _what_ ,” she says in a low measured voice, “do you think you’re doing?”

            “My Mom asked me to check on your wound real quick,” he says quickly, “I’m a vet – so she wanted to see if I could identify what kind of animal it was.”

            She’s 98% sure he’s lying, but she bites her tongue and feigns exhaustion so he’ll go away.

* * *

            She’s still in her hospital bed, her laptop propped on her knees

They tell her later that it was a wolf that bit her, but when she googles it – it says that wolves weren’t supposed to live in California anymore.

She feels a weird sort of bond with her and the so-called wolves of California.

            Neither of them were supposed to be here, yet here they were.

            _here they were._

  *   


* * *




            She comes home from the hospital on a Tuesday and stares into the depths of her house, thinking.

            “Listen up you,” she tells the house, even though she _doesn’t_ believe in any sort of supernatural entities – she’s a grown ass woman who does very important online work for huge companies, “I’m injured now, so you better be nicer.”

            Something in the house seems to sigh, and her side inexplicably _aches_. She moves to the couch and sinks down onto the cushions, closing her eyes tightly and running her fingers over the barely healed gash in her side.

            The house seems to be watching her, which is ridiculous – houses don’t _watch_ people.

            There’s almost something else in the air that she can’t quite put her finger on however, some invisible current that’s flowing through the foundations and up through the cracks in the floorboards.

            Still, for whatever reason it doesn’t feel _evil_ – just sad and a little lost.

            Like her.

            “I don’t believe in ghosts,” she tells the empty room.

* * *

 

            On the next coffee/run, Allison stays for a little longer than usual.

            “I was really worried about you,” the other girl confesses.

            “I’m fine,” she tells Allison.

            There’s a minutes pause before Allison hesitantly changes the subject, like it’s something she’s been _instructed_ to ask.

            “Why did you buy _this_ house?”

            It’s a question her mother asked the first day she declared her intentions. It was a house made for multiple people, made for laughter filling the halls and soccer practices and family movie nights.

            It isn’t meant for a single woman in her twenties, moving back to her hometown because of reasons she can’t describe.

            “Something in it drew me here,” Lydia finally says, “I’m sure you’ll understand once you’ve moved between a few houses.”

            Allison’s eyebrows raise in a question, but Lydia is _not_ about to explain her entire experience moving from Beacon Hills to Boston, from Boston to London – from home to school to _Jackson_ – because Allison, quite frankly, hasn’t done anything yet to earn Lydia’s trust.

            _Yet_.

            “Why don’t you tell me who used to live here,” Lydia says it in a no nonsense sort of way, because she prides herself on being quite intelligent and can’t imagine that this way was the best running route.

            “Wha – “        

            “You run past here every day,” Lydia points out, “when you live halfway across town, and I know for a fact that in high school you liked to run through the _forest_ , not on the streets.”

            Allison smiles an abashed sort of smile, dimples flashing at the corners of her mouth before – “Am I really that obvious?”

“You and Scott both,” Lydia rolls her eyes.

            “You remember asking about Scott’s best friend?” Allison’s voice is wary, her eyes flickering away from Lydia’s face and down at the ceramic mug in her hands.

            The realization strikes her, and Lydia wonders why she hadn’t made the connection _earlier_ – she remembers him suddenly, all bouncing limbs and bright smiles and cheery words.

            Suddenly she also remembers how he died. He was impaled she thinks, in some sort of mugging gone wrong. She remembers reading the quote in the paper – _“it just happened so fast”_ from one of his friend’s present. She remembers that they put a smiling picture next to the caption TEENAGER MURDERED and that to her he had just been another tragedy in this tragic town.

            “I remember,” Lydia says quietly, and suddenly – unbidden – she remembers that she had spent most of her school years with this boy, “Did he - did he used to have a crush on me?”

            Crush was a word children used, but Allison nods all the same. Lydia feels a sinking feeling that radiates down to her toes.

 

* * *

            She digs out her yearbook from her sophomore year and skips past all the pages full of people she pretended to know (until she graduated from high school and found that she really knew nobody at all) until she finally finds his face.

His name is long and complicated, and she can’t even _begin_ to know how to pronounce it, but his nickname surfaces in her mind.

“Stiles Stilinski,” she says out loud, and something in the house seems to respond.

            She wonders how long it’s been since that name was spoken out loud here.

            She traces over his picture and his name with her fingertip. He looks insanely happy and goofy, even though it’s a school picture and in all sense he should look _miserable_. School pictures were usually something to fear.

            He looks, to her, like a good person.

            She shuts the yearbook with a snap, and wonders why good people died when bad people like Jackson lived on to hurt more people.

            She touches the invisible bruises on her cheekbone and remembers. Something in the house remembers too.

* * *

 

            She’s putting on her mascara when she sees the man in the mirror.

            Maybe _man_ wasn’t the right term, but boy wasn’t either. It was something suspended in-between, eyes ancient but body youthful. She gives a shriek of surprise and prods herself in the eye with the brush.

            She’s blind for the next few moments, and when she finally convinces her eyes to open – he’s gone.

            She convinces herself that it’s just a trick of her imagination, or the fact that she had spent hours staring at his yearbook picture.

            She was almost certain it was a folly.

            It couldn’t be real, because she had seen Stiles Stilinski in the mirror behind her, and he had been dead for a long time.

 

  * * * *




            That night – she dreams.

            She’s in a small narrow corridor, and Stiles Stilinski is slumped underneath her, unconscious. She prods at his face, trying to wake him up to no avail. She can feel the name thrumming through her veins – the hope that Scott will reach her in time rushing through her head and into her _soul_.

            _allison,_ the voices chant, _allison allison allison allison._

When she screams the name, she knows her best friend is gone.

            Lydia wakes up feeling strange – a sorrow bubbling to life in her chest deeper and darker than she knew she could feel.

            She remembers how the name had felt ringing in her head however, and it terrifies her, even if her head is empty of voices and full of imaginary _grief_.

            _Allison isn’t dead,_ she reminds herself.

            Her next thought comes to the surface of her mind anyways.

            _Was that how Stiles Stilinski died?_

* * *

 

            _“You can figure it out,” she tells him, as he’s kneeling at her feet, “Stiles – you’re the one who always figures it out.”_

 

* * *

_“Did you hear about Stiles Stilinski?” it’s her new best friend (after Allison had become preoccupied with other people, other responsibilities) who asks her._

_“Who?” Lydia asks, twirling her hair._

_“His Dad’s the sheriff. He died last night.”_

_“People die all the time in this town,” Lydia rolls her eyes, “one person isn’t going to make a difference.”_

* * *

 

The dreams fill her head with truths and lies, until Lydia feels like she’s playing a game with herself.

Which one is the lie?

Of course, that’s an easy one.

The one’s where Stiles is alive, where he’s breathing and talking to her and hugging her and telling her _i think you look really beautiful when you cry_ – that one’s the lie.

The one’s where she wakes up and realizes she’s sleeping in a house where a _boy_ , a living breathing _boy_ , had grown up. Where he had spent his last night. Where he had learned and lived and loved and cried –

She was living in a dead man’s house.

 

* * *

 

            While she’s lying in bed, sleep evading her grasp – she begins to think about some of the things that have never added up in her life.

            First, that night in the school. She remembers that it had seemed like some sort of beast hunting them, but later Derek Hale had been proven innocent, so what was it?

            Everything else that seems to be different to her in high school is coming back to her in waves now, the way people had started dying off like flies, animal attacks becoming more common than car accidents.

            Then she remembers Jackson, how he had left and then found her again, his temperamental moods, his super strength, the way he always disappeared on full moons –

            There’s dozens of pieces in front of her, pieces that in high school she had been too afraid to see. Pieces that she had ignored, pushed aside with new dates and new friends, all because she hadn’t been forced into it.

            She traces over the scars in her side from the wolf in the parking lot and feels something bubbling in her blood, _changing_ her.

 

* * *

 

            _“Red is for unsolved,” he tells her, and she lays on her bed looking up at him – wishing a million things but acting on none of them._

 

* * *

 

            She finds the article about Stiles’ murder online, and prints it out. Then she cuts out his yearbook picture, cuts out every article talking about wolf attacks in Beacon Hills – plus pictures of all the people she found odd, or had died, in high school.

            She uses red string to loosely connect everything, taping it down where she’s uncertain.

            “Unsolved,” she whispers, tracing the red string from the article to Stiles’ face.

            (She attributes the door opening behind her as the wind pushing it open.)

 

* * *

 

            She keeps her wall of clues in her bedroom, where no one is likely to see it. She wants this section of her life, this quiet understanding, to be _private_.

            She’s still figuring it all out (even though everything is pointing to one conclusion) and doesn’t know if she can really trust anyone with it just yet.

            “They’ll think I’m crazy,” she tells herself, staring at her wall of facts.

            “I don’t think you’re crazy,” a boy’s voice says from behind her, “not that you ever hear me or see me _but_ – “

            Lydia whirls around, a shriek of surprise emitting from her mouth so loud that she’s pretty sure her neighbors can hear her and think she’s being robbed.

            _Stiles Stilinski_ is sitting on her bed. His hair is longer than it was in his sophomore yearbook picture, and he’s got dark shadows etched under his eyes. That, and Lydia soon realizes that she can see _through_ him to the bed behind him, like he’s slightly transparent.

            “You – you’re –“

            “ _You can see me_?” he nearly shouts, leaping backwards so he’s flat against her headboard. He seems as equally surprised as she was.

            “How are you here?” Lydia is suddenly aware that she’s wearing sweatpants and a tank top, her hair pulled messily behind her, while a boy sits on her bed.

            “How can you see me?” he answers her question with a question.

            “I’m dreaming,” Lydia decides, “okay – this is a new one. Wake up Lydia.”

            He’s almost scrambling off her bed, limbs flying erratically until he’s inches from her.

            “You’re not dreaming!” he exclaims excitedly, “I promise you’re not. I’ve been here this entire time.”

            Lydia takes several steps back, her back bumping into the doorframe.

            “I think I would have noticed if there was another person living here thank you very much,” she says.

            “No – well – _nobody_ has been able to see me before now,” he explains, running one hand through his hair, “I’m not sure why you can, out of everyone? Because I’ve tried haunting Scott, Allison – Malia – _everyone_.”

            “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Lydia tells him, although she feels rather ridiculous saying it, considering there’s a transparent looking dead person standing in her room. Still, her brain keeps running that same sentence over and over like a record that won’t stop.

            “Um – I think there is,” Stiles says, “I mean – maybe I’m kind of biased in that debate considering I _am_ a ghost but – “

            Lydia’s eyes widen, “You’ve been here all this time?”

            “Yes,” he says happily.

            She picks up the nearest object (a spool of red thread) and chucks it as his head.

            “DID YOU WATCH ME CHANGING?” she shrieks.

 

* * *

 

            She leaves the house around eleven in the morning and drives around aimlessly, trying to sort out the tangle of thoughts in her head. Stiles watches her go from the front window of her (his?) house.

            Lydia usually has no problem solving mysteries, and processes information at a speed most would find incredible.

            The fact that a _ghost_ was haunting her house however, may be too much for even her brain.

            That and the missing puzzle pieces that were finally starting to come together. The wolves, the deaths in high school, Jackson’s weird behavior after they had gotten back together – _everything_.

            She’s tempted to call Allison and get a confirmation, but the memory of the sadness in Stiles’ eyes stops her, and she turns the car back towards her house.

* * *

 

            He’s sitting at her kitchen table when she gets back, his legs propped up on the table. He looks incredibly bored.

            “You’re a bit of a lame ghost,” Lydia greets, taking the seat across from him. “I mean, it wasn’t until I _saw_ you that I was afraid.”

            “It takes a lot of energy to do any of that stuff,” Stiles explains, “I fade out when I try to big stuff. It’s almost like – going to sleep.”

            Lydia nods to herself, and then moves to get herself a nice cup of tea to settle her nerves.

            “I believe you’re real,” she says to the cabinets, “I just – I don’t understand why I can see you.”

            “I don’t understand either,” he admits, “I know you got bitten though – “

            “By a werewolf,” Lydia concludes, “because they’re real – aren’t they?”

            “Yeah. I mean I think practically everything that we hear about in stories is real, even _vampires_ although I’ve never seen a vampire so maybe not. I’m pretty sure they don’t sparkle like in Twilight though.”

Something about his rambling seems nervous, and she thinks maybe she’s not the only one who’s frightened by this new resolution.

            She turns back to the table and sits cautiously across from him. “But I’m not a werewolf.”

            “No,” he frowns, “you’re not.”

 

* * *

  
  


            _“No no no no no – c’mon Lydia wake up. C’mon Lydia wake up – can you hear me? Lydia open your eyes.”_

_She’s impossibly far away._

 

* * *

 

            “I just wanted you to know,” Stiles says that morning while she’s making herself breakfast, “I never watched you changing. Or sleeping.”

            “Showering?”

            “I am _not_ a perverted ghost Lydia,” he says, rolling his eyes.

            “But you still watched me when I wasn’t there.”

            “Only some of the time,” he admits, “usually I follow Scott or Allison around. Although sometimes that gets sad.”

            “Sad?”

            “They visit my grave every Tuesday,” he says, “have you ever seen someone visiting your own grave? It’s a not a fun experience.”

            “I can’t imagine it would be,” Lydia’s brain still hasn’t fully registered that this is happening, but she forces herself to go through her usual morning routines, because she needs some sense of normalcy.

Stiles begins to drum his fingers on the countertop, but it makes no sound. _Because,_ she reminds herself, _he’s a ghost._

“I have no idea what to say,” he finally says, “I haven’t actually talked to someone in _years_.”

            “You’ve been a ghost for – “ Lydia is twenty four now, and since he died ,“ Eight years?”

            Stiles frowns, “I guess so. Wow.”

            “Wow,” she agrees.

            “Am I – am I okay to stay here?” his eyes are wide and vulnerable. Lydia’s tempted to ask why or say _no_ (at this point she’s seriously considering moving away) but then she remembers that she’s the first person he’s been able to talk to in _eight years._

            “You can stay here,” Lydia finally says, and the smile that lights up Stiles’ face is almost enough for her to smile back. _Almost_.

            She still feels weird that he’s been watching her this entire time; an invasion of privacy she hadn’t known existed. She’s pretty sure she hadn’t done anything too embarrassing – other than taping his picture up on her wall.

            (And dreaming about him every night, but he couldn’t know that.)

* * *

  
 

            _“Look Lydia,” Allison says, “I’ve just been really busy.”_

_“With Scott?” Lydia replies in her best-offended voice, “Look Allison – I’m over it. If you’d rather spend time with your boyfriend, that’s your business. Personally, I don’t care.”_

* * *

 

            Allison comes over the next day, per Lydia’s request.

            “I got your text but – “

            “I want you to explain some things to me,” Lydia declares, gesturing for Allison to sit on the sofa. “I think I’ve figured out some of it anyways.”

            Allison takes a deep breath, “In sophomore year, that night in the school – it wasn’t a serial killer or Derek Hale – it was an alpha werewolf that wanted Scott to kill us.”

            “Because Scott’s a werewolf,” Lydia finishes, and finds that now the words are out in the open, she feels like a weight has been lifted off her chest.

            “Yes, that’s why – “ Allison doesn’t finish, but Lydia can fill in the blanks. _that’s why I started ignoring you and we stopped being friends._

“You know I could have probably handled it,” Lydia finally says, “instead you _all_ kept me in the dark – because Jackson knew didn’t he? He knew and he didn’t tell me.”

            “But you and Jackson were broken up,” Allison says, “and then he left, I didn’t think – “

            Stiles is suddenly sitting next to Allison, locking eyes with her. Realizing that two people are now listening to her answer, Lydia bites her lip and shakes her head.

            “We were back together for a little while,” she says, but leaves it there. She doesn’t want to confess everything to Allison, or to Stiles.

           

* * *

 

            It’s almost like having a roommate who doesn’t pay the rent, Lydia thinks.

            Stiles is waiting there in his same clothes (a blue flannel, jeans) when she wakes up, and talks to her during breakfast about anything, everything. She works online, and he promises to leave her alone for the hours she’s working (she doesn’t know where he goes) but comes back as soon as she’s done.

            He follows her everywhere, even to the grocery store, and she develops the habit of a holding a phone up to her ear so people don’t think she’s crazy.

            “You should go talk to Scott and Allison,” he says about five days after he’s been her ‘roommate’, while she eats dinner. He always gives a longing look at the food, but today he seems more distracted than usual.

            “Why?”

            “They’re waiting for you to make the first move. To see if you’re okay with everything.”

            “Everything?”

            “The supernatural,” he supplies, and she rather aggressively stabs a piece of chicken.

            “What if I’m not okay?”

            “They’ll wait.”

            “For how long?”

            “I don’t know, it’s not like I can _talk_ to them,” Stiles leans back in his chair, the edges of the chair lifting off the ground. She hates it when he moves items. It makes his face fade out, so he becomes a near transparent outline.

            “Do you want to talk to them?”

            “Of course.”

            “You know,” she says, taking a sip of water, “I could talk to them for you. Just let them know you’re there, and have conversations through me.”

            “No!” he protests loudly, the chair legs coming back to the ground with a thump. As he does, the edges of his flannel flutter, and for the brief moments when the shirt beneath is showing – she notices the large dark stain where his heart was.

            She had forgotten, over the past five days, somehow, that he was dead. That she was living in his house, but only because he couldn’t himself.

            “Why not?” she remembers to ask.

            “I don’t – I don’t want them to,” he says lamely, but she lets it drop. She’s knows what it’s like not to want to share things, and she isn’t about to force him to say anything he didn’t want to.

            He hadn’t pressed the Jackson topic with her after all.

 

* * *

 

            _She was getting coffee when she ran into him. Quite literally, in fact._

_“Lydia?” a voice that had lingered at the back of her mind since high school spoke, and she felt her heart stop._

_“Jackson?” she asks, and when she turns, he’s standing there, all angles and smiles._

_(She has a bad feeling that she’ll regret this.)_

* * *

 

            Stiles comes with her to her first official pack meeting.

            She calls Scott and tells him that she’s in on _whatever_ this is, because she’s confused and wants real, solid _answers_.

            The pack consists of Allison, Scott, Kira, Malia and Liam. She memorizes their names, considering most of them are unfamiliar, and their faces.

            Scott – Alpha.

            Allison – human, but apparently kickass.

            Malia – Werecoyote

            Liam – Werewolf

            “I’m Lydia,” she says several times, but it’s almost a question mark on the end of it – she doesn’t know _what_ she is.

            “You didn’t bite me?” she clarifies with Scott, and he shakes his head.

            “I make a habit of _not_ biting random people,” he says, and Stiles snorts from behind him.

            Nobody else can see him but Lydia, so she tries not to look at him very often. She doesn’t want them to think she’s crazy.

            “I know he doesn’t know this, but I _saw_ him bite Liam,” Stiles says, “although he probably didn’t bite you Lydia.”

            At least she knows that.

            “Then who did bite me?” she thinks to ask next, and the uncomfortable silence is thick enough to poke holes in.

            “His name is Peter,” Malia finally says, “we thought he was dead, but it turns out he’s an alpha now. Again.”

            “Again?”

            “Do you remember that night in the school?” Allison asks, and Lydia inwardly shrinks. _Of course_ she remembers, it was the first time she had felt like she was truly, definitely, going to _die_.

            It isn’t an experience she wants to relive.

“Of course.”

            “That’s who was attacking us in the school,” Allison explains, “we thought Derek Hale had killed him for good, but it turns out he’s back and well – he wants to kill all of us probably.”

            “How did he come back?” Lydia asks sharply, “From being killed I mean.”

            Stiles meets her eyes across the room. She can see the picture frames in Scott and Allison’s house through him, and he shakes his head.

            “We aren’t sure, but someone named Meredith went missing from Eichen House. She was a banshee, and had been complaining of visions of a strange man to her therapist, one that fits Peter’s description.”

            Lydia nods, but she’s only half listening now.

 

* * *

 

 

            “What if we find this Meredith,” Lydia tells Stiles that night, once she’s eating dinner, “And she brings _you_ back?”

            Stiles frowns. “I don’t know if that would work. Peter was an alpha.”

            “And you’re a Stiles,” Lydia says, “ _So_?”

            Something in his eyes seems to be saying _you’re new at this_ but he just shrugs and goes, “Maybe.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Living with Stiles became easy to her, in time. He’s true to his word and doesn’t watch her sleep or change, so instead it almost feels like she’s got a built in friend.

            Well, a built in friend that also happens to be dead.

            “Peter Hale hasn’t been seen dead or alive for nine years,” Lydia says, pacing in front of her bedroom wall. Stiles is sprawled out on her bed, trying to pick up a length of red string. (It usually remains firmly on the bed sheets).

            “I remember him dying,” Stiles says, “I was there. I don’t understand how a banshee could make him come back to life.”

            She had looked up the definition for a banshee, but it had seemed obscure to her. There had been something about the easy way the Internet had described it that had not felt right.

            “You say Derek Hale slashed his throat?”

            “With his claws,” Stiles adds helpfully.

            “How can anyone survive from someone ripping their throat out?” Lydia tugs fruitfully at the strands of her hair.

            “They don’t. That’s part of the reason cutting someone’s throat is usually fatal.”

            “Can we somehow get in touch with Derek Hale?” Lydia asks, and Stiles shrugs.

            “I don’t know. I was dead before he left.”

            “But you were, you know, _haunting_ them.”

            Stiles stares at her, “Even if I have been creepily watching my friends for years doesn’t mean I have the capability to pick up a phone and _call_ people.”

            Lydia ignores his sarcasm and instead sends a quick text to Scott. “We’ll figure this out,” she says, more to herself than to him.

            “Why does it matter so much?” Stiles asks, “The Lydia I remember from high school didn’t really care much about anything.”

            The words wound her deeper than he knows. She doesn’t know how to explain it, the words catch in her throat and she feels like nerves are battering at her insides with tiny little fists.

            She can’t tell him he’s wrong however, because he’s _not_.

            “I’m not the same person as I was in high school,” she instead says. “That’s part of growing up. You learn new things.”

            Stiles flinches, and she comes to the realization that while she grew up – _he never will._

He stops trying to pick up the red string and instead slumps against her pillows, defeated.

            “I suppose we both deserved that one,” he finally says quietly.

            “I’m sorry,” she says instantly, “I – that was uncalled for.”

            “Just because I can’t age, just because I’m _dead_ ,” he pauses, and that word rings through the room ( _dead dead dead.),_ “Doesn’t mean I haven’t grown up.”

            When he disappears, she feels like she deserves it.

 

* * *

 

 

            She hears the next death in her head.

            She wakes up, screaming someone’s name, voices swirling around her head and through her veins.

            “Lydia!” it’s Stiles, and she can see his face inches from her’s, his hands fluttering at the sides of her cheeks, but she can’t feel his fingers where they brush against her skin, just spots of cold which appear and disappear on her face in seconds.

            “I’m okay,” she breathes, although that name is still swirling in her head like some ominous foretelling, “but I think someone just died.”

 

* * *

 

            They have been doing so much research on Meredith that the facts come to Lydia one at a time, assembling in her head in a little checklist of horrors.

            (The person who owned the name Lydia had woken up screaming had been found dead in the forest, wolf bites all over her body.)

            The bestiary ends up helping too, when Allison sends the digital file to Lydia’s laptop computer.

            She reads the name over and over again, reads the definition, what these people do – most importantly, at the bottom in little black letters: _can see ghosts if bitten by an alpha._

“Banshee,” Stiles reads over her shoulder, his fingers tapping on her arm, sending shockwaves of cold through her. “You think?”

           

* * *

 

 

            “What do you do when you’re not talking to me?” Lydia asks, one day after she’s done with her work and she’s taking a walk in the park. She’s alone, so she doesn’t use the pretense of talking to a phone when no one is there. It’s just her and Stiles.

            “I float around,” Stiles shrugs, “I go to my Dad and Melissa’s, or Scott and Allison’s – or any of my friends. But I like talking to you.”

            “You do?”

            “Considering you’re the only person I can formally have a conversation with, a safe answer is _yes_.”

            “Is it boring, being a ghost?”

            Stiles ponders the question for a moment. “I suppose so, yes.”

            “Why are you a ghost?” she’s been wanting to ask that question ever since he showed up in her bedroom, but somehow it had felt like she needed to be closer to him for it to hold it’s proper weight.

            “I died.”

            “Why didn’t you – “ she gestures with her fingers, “Move on?”

            He frowns, “I – I can’t until I finish everything.”

            _but_ she thinks sadly _can you finish anything?_

“Like you have unfinished business here?”

            “I guess,” he shrugs, “I don’t know. It’s not like you get a rulebook. I’m just here, and I’ll move on when I finish things.”

            “Maybe I should call Ghostbusters,” she jokes just to lighten the mood.

            “Who you gonna call? _Ghostbusters_!” he responds almost immediately, a smile spreading across his face. Lydia is surprised by the twisting in her stomach that accompanies that smile.

            “I was obsessed with that movie when I was younger,” she confesses, “I never believed ghosts were real though.”

            “Not that kind,” he says, tapping his fingers against his knee, “ _damn_ , I miss movies.”

            “Why didn’t you just sneak into a movie theater?” she asks in all seriousness, and he looks at her, and then swears.

            “Why didn’t _I_ think of that?” he wails, “I mean – I wonder how many good movies I’ve missed. Movies and books. Not that I could read books but, you know, the _thought_.”

            “What’s your favorite movie?” she asks before she can help herself.

            “Like, all the Star Wars movies ever made.”

            “But you haven’t seen the seventh episode have you?” she asks, and his eyes widen dramatically.

            “THERE IS A NEW STAR WARS?”

 

* * *

 

            She rents the movie that night and Stiles sits next to her on the couch.

            His face is priceless to watch as the opening scene rolls forward, and Lydia finds herself laughing at all of his exaggerated reactions throughout. She finds herself memorizing each detail, his laugh, the way he’s always fidgeting – even the blue sofa cushion that’s slightly bleeding through him.

            She had once had a teacher that had said capturing moments for a rainy day would always make you feel better.

            She’s starting to think this is her rainy day moment.

 

* * *

 

 

 

            “How long are you going to stay in Beacon Hills?” her coworker (and one of her best friends) asks her over the phone, “I thought it was more of a temporary thing.”

            “I’m not sure yet,” Lydia stirs the soup she’s making for dinner methodically. Stiles is currently amusing himself by trying to pick up the silverware in her drawers, his face screwed up in concentration.

            “Ooooooh,” her coworker coos, “did you meet someone?”

            Lydia’s eyes flicker over to Stiles. He’s nearly transparent now, one of the spoons levitating in the air.

            “I found some old friends,” she says, talking about Scott and Allison but thinking of Stiles.

            “Well can you finish up and come back? I miss youuuuu,” she crows.

            “Well, I told you it might be permanent.”

            “I heard a might in there. _Might_.”

            Lydia laughs, but her heart isn’t entirely in it, “I’ll talk to you later.”

            “Bye!”

            When she hangs up, Stiles drops the spoon. It clatters back into her silverware drawer, and he looks slightly sheepish as he fades back into view.

            “Who was that?” he asks.

            “My coworker back in Boston,” Lydia sighs and turns off the heat on the stove.

            “Why did you leave Boston?”

            “Something was calling me back,” she tells him, even though she’s said those words a billion times.

            He shrugs, “Makes sense. It was probably the Nemeton.”

            “The Nemeton?”

            “We woke it up eight years ago. It draws supernatural creatures here.”

            Lydia frowns, “But I was already here then, and I left. So did it draw me back _again?_.”

            Stiles ponders this. “Then maybe something else brought you back?”

            “And to this house,” Lydia trails off, staring intently into her soup. The answer is dancing in front of her eyes, but she refuses to believe it.

            When she’s eating dinner that night, Stiles distracts her by telling her stupid puns and she dares herself to imagine a life where he’s alive.

 

* * *

 

 

            “So _Lydia_ ,” Malia says, sucking up alcohol through a pretty pink straw (Scott had explained that they couldn’t get drunk, but that didn’t seem to stop Malia from consuming about ten beverages), “how are you finding our little town?”

            “Eventful,” Lydia’s had one glass and her second is three quarters full. She’s wearing her nicest party dress, her hair done up in ringlets.

            Allison laughs, her cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol , “You can say that again.”

            They’ve invited her on this girl’s night despite Lydia’s protests, and the club they’ve stationed themselves in is too full of flashy lights and sweaty bodies for Lydia’s liking.

            “I can’t believe you ditched movie night for _this_ ,” Stiles says, leaning on the bar. Lydia fights the urge to look at him and respond, because she can’t let anyone know he exists.

            “Do you have any questions about the supernatural Lydia?” Kira asks, her face bright and earnest.

            “Only about a billion,” Lydia thinks. The most prominent one being _what really am i?_ Was she a banshee, like the facts seemed to be pointing to? Or was she something else – something hidden to herself.

            “Shoot,” Allison says, downing the rest of her drink.

            “Do ghosts exist?” Lydia asks, and Stiles makes a noise of protest.

            “I don’t know,” Malia says, “I mean – we’ve never seen one. I suppose no ghosts that are helpful come back.”

            “Really?” Stiles says, “I mean _c’mon_. I am plenty helpful.”

            “Why do you ask?” Kira says, as Lydia’s eyes flicker over to where Stiles is standing and back again.

            She looks down at her drink, “No reason,” she lies.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Look, anything I say, you say to them,” Stiles says as they climb into Lydia’s car.

            “Or, I could tell them that you’ve been haunting me so it doesn’t sound _completely_ weird.”

            “Imagine it Lydia,” Stiles says as she pulls out of her driveway, “You walk in. You say, hey you remember your old friend Stiles? The one who died painfully eight years ago? Well he’s actually a ghost and he’s been stalking you all this time wishing _someone_ would see him. Oh but you won’t ever be able to see him. But I can relay his messages to you!”

            “They’re going to figure it out sometime,” Lydia warns, “they keep wondering why I don’t talk to more people.”

            “Then talk to more people.”

            “I talk to more people than I’m comfortable with already,” Lydia says, giving him a knowing look. Stiles puts his palm to his chest in mock hurt.

            “Wow Lydia. That wounds me. That wounds me deep.”

            She thinks for a moment, and then rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll do what you say.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “Well maybe Peter Hale’s left town,” Scott suggests optimistically.

            “Yes, and I’m Caspar the friendly ghost,” Stiles says. Lydia fights the urge to roll her eyes.

            “Is that really realistic?” Lydia puts in, “I mean, everyone thought he was dead nine years ago, and here he is.”

            “Lydia’s right,” Allison says, giving her an encouraging smile.

            “ _Stiles_ is right,” Stiles puts in. Lydia is tempted to yell at him, but knows she’d only come off crazy.

            “I think he’s after something,” she continues, and she isn’t entirely sure _why_ she says it but it’s something she feels deep down in her heart, an instinct that won’t go away. “And it’s not just about killing someone this time. I think he bit me for a reason.”

            “Why?” Allison’s gaze is intent, and Lydia remembers how she felt her die in a dream.

            “I don’t know,” she says, glancing over at Stiles.

 

* * *

 

_“You’ve been right every time something like this has happened,” he tells her, but in this world his face is still free of pain and his eyes full of affection. “Okay, so don’t start doubting yourself now.”_

_“No scent,” she persists, “No bomb. I got you in trouble.”_

_“Barrow was there, alright?” there was almost something challenging in his gaze now, as his fingers wound her own with red string. Red was for unsolved. “You knew it. You felt it.”_

_She looks at him, and she knows doubt fills her face because his next words are more firm than ever._

_“And look, if you wanted to, I’d go back to that school right now and I’d search all night just to prove it.”_

* * *

 

 

            She wakes up and drives.

            She can’t say _where_ she’s going, but there’s a map in her head, and her hands are steady on the wheel.

            Stiles isn’t with her, he usually doesn’t spend the nights in her house after he’d given up haunting her.

            She drives on the highway and then deep into the forest, until the charred remains of a house come into view.

            She remembers the Hale fire, faintly, but it’s enough to make her climb out of her car and stare.

            It’s a hollowed out shell, a family that had been built up and destroyed. _By Allison’s aunt,_ she reminds herself, remembering the unkind things she had said to Allison about said aunt.

            “Oh Lydia,” a cool smooth male voice says, “so good of you to join me.”

            Lydia whirls around. The man speaking is of a medium height, muscular, with a simpering smile to match. There’s something _off_ about his eyes however, something dark and unsettling.

            “Peter Hale,” she guesses.

            “Correct.”

            “What are you doing?” she asks, even thought the question sounds awkward. She doesn’t see how she can ask _why are you here_ though, considering this was _his_ family’s old house.

            “Funny, how different universes have some of the same outcomes,” Peter says, staring at the house.

            “What do you mean?” Lydia takes several steps backwards.

            “I need your help Lydia,” Peter says, and advances towards her. Lydia backs up so suddenly that her back rams against her car. In the next moment he’s right next to her, his fingers gripping her chin, his eyes inches from her’s.

            “Why would I help _you_?” she spits.

            “What if I told you that I come from a universe where _he’s_ alive?” Peter breathes, and Lydia flinches.

            “Who’s alive?”

            “The little ghost haunting your house. I come from a universe where he’s alive and kicking.”

            “You’re lying,” she spits, and kicks upwards, landing her foot right in between his legs.

            He peels away from her immediately, sinking to the ground and holding the – er – _sensitive_ area. Apparently werewolves could be kicked in the balls too.

            “I’m not lying Lydia,” Peter groans, “I can tell you my story – if it’ll make you believe me.”

            She wishes she had a gun, or some sort of weapon that she could use to give herself some leverage. She has none.

            “If you hurt me,” she begins, “Allison will hunt you down.”

            “Oh I’m sure,” Peter waves her comment off, “but what I’m saying is true. I come from a different universe.”

            “How do – “

            “In this universe, I bit you when you were a sophomore. Yes, you’re a banshee. Do you know – that without you, Stiles dies? That’s why he’s dead in this universe. You never were bitten. You never became apart of the ‘pack’ and he died.”

            “Instead of Allison,” Lydia guesses, thinking back to her first dream.

            “Good,” Peter hisses, “I broke out of a – er – prison, and killed the first alpha I met that wasn’t Scott. Unfortunately, due to the wild hunt, I had to escape through a portal.”

            “The wild hunt?” Lydia frowns.

            “Ghost riders,” Peter spits the name like it’s venom; “I was recruiting a witch when they found us. Nasty little things, they make everyone you know forget you ever existed.”

            “Why do you need my help?” Lydia says next.

            “Because Lydia,” he smiles wickedly, “you’re the only one who can build a new portal.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “What’s wrong?” Stiles asks her while she’s eating breakfast. She knows she has dark circles under her eyes and looks practically pale as a ghost (which is a joke she needs to use on him at some point.)

            _did you know_ she wants to ask him, _that there’s a universe where you’re alive?_

* * *

 

 

            She has told Peter that she will think on her choice, the different options cycling through her head on repeat.

            Still, the possibility that what he’s saying is _true_ , that Stiles is alive and Allison is _dead_ , it makes her decide to spend more time with her high school friend.

            They’re taking a walk through the woods (Lydia has asked Stiles to stay away for now) and Allison’s dimples make Lydia feel like everything might be okay.

            “You know, I’m really sorry I pushed you away in high school,” Allison says, “It’s when everything started to go crazy.”

            “Everything would be different,” Lydia agrees. _Stiles would be alive and you would be dead._

            “You’re taking all of this really well,” Allison says, “I had an almost total meltdown.”

            “I had someone to ease me into it,” Lydia nudges Allison’s shoulder, but in reality she’s thinking of Stiles. “Can I ask you a question?”

            “Shoot.”

            “Do you believe in alternate universes?” Lydia’s eyes are looking anywhere but at her friend, sure that her facial expression betrays her true motives.

            “I don’t see why not,” Allison debates, “I mean – everything else has turned out to be true.”

           

* * *

 

 

            Lydia has done a great job of avoiding the Sheriff of Beacon Hills (she knows he’s Stiles’ father and somehow seeing him would remind her all too much that Stiles is _dead_ ) until he pulls her over for running a red light.

            She has his son to blame for that, sitting in the passenger seat and distracting her with facts about bees.

            “Lydia?” she isn’t sure why Sheriff Stilinski knows her name. She can practically _feel_ Stiles shrinking in his seat, and Lydia chooses to ignore him for now.

            “Um – “

            “Sorry, I’m Scott’s step-father. He told me about you,” he smiles at Lydia warmly, and Lydia suddenly wonders if Stiles would have gotten those smile lines around his eyes if he had survived.

            “I’m so sorry,” she says at once, “I didn’t mean to run that light – I’ll – “

            “I won’t give you a ticket,” he says, “my son would have killed me if I did. Have a good day.”

            Stiles mumbles something, and when Lydia turns she’s surprised to find that he has ghostly tears in his eyes.

            “Stiles – “ she begins, but he’s already fading away.

 

* * *

 

 

            She finds him in her (his) living room when she gets home, sitting on the couch with his head in her hands.

            She walks over to one of her bookshelves and picks off a book at random, moving over to sit next to him.

            He looks up at her, “I’m sorry Lyds,” he says, and she shakes her head.

            “It’s okay.”

            He notices the book in her hands, “What’s that for?”

            She opens it. “Well, I remember you mentioning that you missed books. So I’m going to read you one.”

            “I can’t let you – “

            “Sure you can,” she says, opening to the first page and beginning to read.

            Stiles shuts his eyes and gets into the story, but Lydia’s mind is not where her mouth is. The story is a good one, she’s read it many times, but she suddenly finds it false.

            In this story, the hero saves the day and all of her friends are safe.

            She looks at Stiles, slightly see through, his flannel buttoned up to the throat (she guesses he can mess with his clothes) with his chest rising and falling in breaths that don’t exist. Surely he was the hero of his own story, but he had died anyways.

            In real life, she supposes, heroes don’t live.

 

* * *

 

 

            She reads the bestiary pages about ghosts, something she’d been too scared to do before. Too scared because one of her best friends is a ghost.

            _Ghosts are left behind because something in their life is not finished._

            She thinks about Stiles, who’s whole life was practically unfinished, and wonders what was tying him to this world. What _one_ tether was keeping him here, anchored – stuck.

            She next looks up the definition of ghost.

            _ghost /g_ _ōst/ noun._

_an apparition that is believed to appear or become manifest to the living, typically as a nebulous image._

She shuts off her laptop after that, pressing her face into the pillows.

            In this other world, was Allison the ghost that was haunting Lydia? Or was there something that was tying Stiles, particularly _Stiles_ , here.

            She doesn’t put it on her walls, because Stiles can see onto her walls, but she connects Stiles and earth with a red string in her head.

            _red is for unsolved._

* * *

 

 

            Peter Hale gives her a month to think over her options. He tells her that in a month the ghost riders will reach the other Beacon Hills, and the other Stiles will be in danger.

            _why do i care about this other stiles?_ she thinks to herself, while she reads to her Stiles one day. _he’s alive, and my stiles is not._

The thought startles her. _my stiles._

            She’s starting to think she’s found the reason she was drawn to this place, and it’s not because of the Nemeton.

 

 

* * *

 

            “Are you kidding me?” Stiles wails during the next pack meeting, “I die, and you all become idiots?”

            Lydia’s head is aching. She’s been trying to put in Stiles’ comments as well as her own, but it’s not easy with two conversations warring in her head.

            Peter Hale has killed several deer and carved messages into their bodies, countdown reminders for Lydia.

            Twenty days. Which, by Lydia’s calculations, means she’s been in Beacon Hills for about three months.

            How had three months managed to turn her life upside down?

            “Peter is too strong,” she says, and Stiles makes a sound of agreement.

            “How do we know that?” Scott asks her.

            “Because we faced him together! I was there!” Stiles says loudly. Lydia, not thinking, repeats his words exactly.

            “ _What_?” Scott looks confused, “Lydia, you weren’t there.”

            “I – I heard some of you talking about it,” Lydia mumbles, rubbing her temples.

            “Are you okay Lydia?” Allison’s concerned.

            “Lydia,” Stiles says, and her head gives another painful throb.

            “Be quiet,” she hisses in his general direction, which happens to be an empty space to the rest of them.

            They’re all looking at her like she’s crazy, and Stiles swears.

            “Who are you talking to?” Liam says, “one of us?”

            “Yes,” Lydia says, “I mean – no. I mean – I don’t know.” She rests her head on the table.

            She feels a cold pressure on her shoulder and knows Stiles has put his hand there. She leans into it, wishing a million things and acting on none of them.

            Seems to be a reoccurring theme in her life.

            “Tell them,” Stiles finally says.

            “Are you sure?” Lydia speaks into the table.

            “Yes.”

            Lydia sits up, guilt pooling in her stomach. She knows he’s only agreeing to this for her, but she can’t bring herself to try and argue with him. She wants someone else to know. She wants everyone to stop looking at her like she’s crazy.

            “I figured out what I am,” she declares, “I’m a banshee.”

            “How do you know?” Scott’s gaze is unsure – _he still thinks I’m crazy,_ Lydia thinks resentfully.

            “Because if a banshee is bitten by an alpha, she can see ghosts,” Lydia rubs the space in-between her eyes, “I’ve been haunted by Stiles Stilinski ever since I moved here.”

            The voices clamor forth at once, and Lydia’s head throbs more persistently, and Stiles begins to rub her back, and while it feels like an icy bucket has been poured over her, she can’t help but appreciate the gesture.

            “Is he here right now?” Scott leans forward, eagerness plain.

            “Yes,” Lydia says, “I’ve been speaking for him as well as me.”

            “Can you – can you ask him – “ Scott’s eyes are wide and innocent, and Lydia almost feels like she’s drowning in them, “Is he doing okay?”

            “He can hear you,” Lydia says, and turns around to Stiles. He has tears shining in his eyes.

            “I’m fine,” he says.

            “He says he’s fine,” Lydia repeats, even though she’s sure he’s lying.

            He had told them for her, so she wouldn’t be alone in knowing his existence – but she can’t imagine how hard it must be for him. He sees his friends, but they can’t see him. They can’t hear his voice, they can’t see him smile or laugh – to them he’s truly a ghost.

            He always will be.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Stiles,” she whispers that night, once they’re back in their house, “do you want to move on?”

            He doesn’t answer.

 

* * *

 

 

            She continues to read through different mythology, and that’s where she learns about the red string of fate.

            _the gods tie an invisible red cord around the ankles of those that are destined to meet one another in a certain situation or help each other in a certain way._

She wonders if that was what pulled her back here. She wonders, if she could see through a god’s eyes, would she see a red string connecting her and Stiles?

_red is for unsolved._

* * *

 

 

            _“But it’s not just someone to hold you under. It needs to be someone to pull you back. Someone who has a strong connection to you – a kind of emotional tether,” Deaton says, and Lydia moves towards Allison automatically. “Lydia – “ he stops her, “You go with Stiles.”_

* * *

 

 

            She’s fifteen days early, but she arrives at the Hale house regardless, her toes curling in her boots and her hair tied tightly behind her.

            “Answer one question,” she told Peter, who grinned. He seemed to know her question before she knew it herself.

            “Whatever you want.”

            “Did Stiles love me?” her voice caught in her throat, “In this other world, does he love that Lydia?”

            “That’s an easy answer, and one you already know. Yes. Now ask the question you really wanted to ask,” Peter says, his eyes cold and calculating.

            “Does that Lydia love him?”

            Peter smiles, “Yes.”

            “Does he know?”

            “No.”

            “I’ll help you.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “Stiles,” she asks, pausing the movie, “how did you die?”

            He looks at her in surprise, his eyes dark.

            “I was possessed by an evil spirit,” he says, “and I knew everyone else was going to die if I didn’t end it.”

            He unbuttons his flannel then, and she sees the dark splotch over his T-shirt.

            “You sacrificed yourself,” she says quietly.

            “It’s like I couldn’t escape my own mind,” he says, “until I saw that I was going to kill my friends. It gave me the strength to take control of my own body, and end it.”

            What variables had gone differently in the other world? Why had Allison died? Why did Stiles _not_ sacrifice himself?

            “Why are you holding on Stiles?” she asks, and for the first time tries to touch him. Her fingers pass through his cheek, only a feeling of cold to show that he existed.

            “Unfinished business,” he says.      

            “What unfinished business?” her heart is in her throat, and everything feels overwhelmingly cold all of the sudden.

            “I think you know,” he whispers.

 

* * *

 

 

            Peter tells her that her dreams are a product of being bitten of an alpha from a different world.

            “But they’re the _key_ ,” he also tells her, while she sneaks out at midnight to meet him.

            “The key to what?”

            “Opening a portal,” he says, “you have to think of that world with everything you have, and then there’s one more ingredient.”

            “One more?”

            “I’ll tell you when we get closer.”

            Lydia has a feeling that she’s not going to like this last ingredient.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Do you know why Stiles is holding on?” Scott asks her over the phone, eager to ask Stiles if he remembers some various childhood thing. Lydia knows that this question is for her, however.

            “No,” she lies.

 

* * *

 

 

            _“I can’t just turn this on. I’m not like you guys. I don’t have claws, or glowing eyes, or super senses. I just have voices in my head.”_

* * *

 

            They finish their first book series, and Lydia has a sinking feeling in her stomach that it’s also going to be there last.

            “Stiles,” she says quietly, while he’s sitting on her bed, “can I ask you a question?”

            “Sure,” he says, and she takes a deep breath.

            “Did you love me in high school?”

            His voice is not hesitant. “Yes.”

            “How? I was a bitch,” she gives a weak laugh.

            “I was in love with the Lydia that I saw underneath,” he says, “the Lydia that I see now.”

            She can feel tears beginning in her eyes.

            “I don’t think I’m worth holding onto,” she says to Stiles, thinking of Jackson.

            “Whoever told you that is lying,” Stiles says, like he can read her mind. “You’re worth it Lydia. You’ve always been worth it.”

            _can you kiss a ghost?_

She goes to him on the bed and tries to reach for him, but her hands pass through his body like smoke.

            “I think we were meant to meet,” she says, thinking _meant to be together._

He stares at her sadly, “I think so too,” he whispers.

            “What exactly is your unfinished business Stiles?”

            “What happened to you after high school Lydia?” he replies with a question.

            “You answer my question and I’ll answer yours,” she counters.

            “I already told you,” he says, with a half smile, “you. You’re my unfinished business Lydia.”

            “Why me?” tears are coming down her face now, but when Stiles reaches to brush them away, he can’t touch her.

            “Because you weren’t who you were supposed to be,” he says, “I needed to get you to be the best Lydia you could possibly be.”

            “How do you know that?”

            “Because that was my mission in high school,” he says, “I don’t know if you noticed, but I was kind of obsessed with you.”

            She manages a teary laugh.

            “You’ve changed my life Stiles Stilinski,” she whispers.

            “What happened to you after high school?” he asks stubbornly.

            “Jackson,” she answers, “when he found me again, I thought he had really changed. That was, until he broke one of my arms and gave me such a big bruise on my face that is looked like I had costume makeup on.”

            Stiles’ eyes narrow in anger.

            “That _jackass_ ,” he swears, “I knew Derek shouldn’t have turned him into a werewolf.”

            They’re quiet for several more moments before Lydia speaks again.

            “If you weren’t a ghost,” she whispers, “I would kiss you.”

            He takes a shaky inhale, his eyes fluttering shut, and she saves this moment. Their bodies as close together on her bed as they can get, his dark hair ruffled, his eyes closed.

            “I would have kissed you back,” he speaks so softly she almost doesn’t hear him, “ _I would have kissed you back_ ,” he repeats, and his voice is filled with so much pain , and she wants to hold him so badly she can hardly stand it.

* * *

 

 

            When she wakes up, there’s a knock on her door. It’s the Sheriff, with a bouquet of flowers.

            “Sheriff Stilinski?”

            “Scott told me that my son’s ghost was here,” Sheriff says, “And I was wondering if I could say something to him.”

            “Of course,” she steps back and lets him in the room. “Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him since last – “

            “I’m here,” Stiles interrupts, materializing in front of the couch.

            “Never mind,” Lydia finishes, “he’s listening.”

            “I don’t know a lot about ghosts,” the Sheriff begins, “but I know that they usually aren’t very happy, and according to the definition in that – that book – it says you’re holding on because of something. And I just wanted to let you know – if it’s because of one of us, it’s okay Stiles. It’s _okay to let go_. And I will always love you.”

            “Tell him I love him too,” Stiles says, and Lydia is startled to find tears trickling down her face.

            “He loves you too,” she says, and the Sheriff hands her the flowers and thanks her before taking his leave.

            That’s when she makes her decision, although she thinks it’s been a long time in the making.

 

* * *

 

 

            “I want to tell Stiles to let go,” she tells the pack at their next meeting. She had lied to Stiles and told him that she and Allison were having ‘girl time’ when in reality – she was telling the pack her news.

            “Doesn’t he need to fulfill what he’s stayed behind to do?” Malia asks. She hadn’t really known Stiles much (except for one make out session in the Eichen house basement that Lydia really did _not_ want to know about) so she doesn’t look as broken hearted as Allison and Scott.

            “I think he has,” Lydia says, and doesn’t mention _it was me. i’m the tether that’s keeping him to earth, and i’m prepared to cut that tether if it means he’ll be free._

“Can we – can we say goodbye?” Scott asks, and Lydia knows he’s crushed that he’s just gotten his best friend back and now he’s losing him again.

            Stiles was supposed to be gone a long time ago though, Lydia thinks, it was only because of her that he was here at all.

           

* * *

 

 

            “Stiles,” she whispers, “I think it’s time that you let go.”

            In his eyes there’s a deep desperate fear, but also a sliver of relief.

            “I – I can’t,” he says, “I can’t leave them – I can’t – “

            “I don’t want you to be in pain anymore,” she whispers, wishing beyond belief that she could touch him, “I don’t want you to be here forever just for me.”

            “You’re worth it,” he says, “Lydia – “

            “You may think I’m worth it,” she says quietly, “but I don’t think I’m worth all this pain. You’ve been holding on for too long Stiles.”

            She sees the pain running through his body.

            “I love you,” he whispers, “God Lydia – I love you _so much_. If I was alive, I’d take you on dates and we’d make out in the back of my jeep and we’d get married and have kids and we’d live Lydia. We’d _live_.”   

            “Then let’s lay here and pretend,” she says, leading him to her bed. “Let’s lay here, and pretend that this is _our_ house and we wake up to each other every day.”

            “And I make you pancakes on Sundays,” he says, “and you kick off your heels and watch Game of Thrones with me.”

            “Two little kids,” she whispers, “or maybe three. With your spirit.”

            “Let’s pretend,” he says.

            “Let’s pretend,” she agrees.

 

* * *

 

 

            They’re in Lydia’s living room on the last day of his life (or afterlife.)

            “Stiles you were the best friend,” Scott tells him, “you were the best friend I ever had. The absolute best. I want you to know that. I want you to remember that – wherever you are. _Wherever_.”

            Allison’s words are similar, and by this time Stiles is crying. Melissa goes next, and the Sheriff, and they act like it’s a funeral – repeating stories and beloved memories.

            Lydia’s crying too, although she pretends she isn’t, repeating Stiles’ last words to his friends and family with all the strength she can muster.

            She feels the cord between them snap when they both let go.

            He turns towards her, tears in his eyes, a watery smile on his face.

            “I’ll wait for you,” he promises her, as bit by bit, he fades away. “Wherever I am – “

            “I’ll find you,” she promises, “I’ll _find you_ Stiles.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Peter Hale is waiting for her that night.

            “The last ingredient was Stiles letting go,” she says, “wasn’t it?”

            Peter nods. “I need you to focus all your energy Lydia – everything you remember about Stiles, about this other world – into one scream.”

            “I have a question and a request,” Lydia says, and Peter looks slightly annoyed.

            “How long does the portal stay open?”

            “Two hours,” he says.

            “And whatever happens in that other world, you _protect_ him. You understand me? _You protect Stiles_.”

            “Fine,” he says, and she knows he could be lying, but she feels like at least she’s tried.

            There’s just two more things to do.

            She opens her mouth – _let’s just pretend –_ and screams so loudly she thinks everyone in Beacon Hills can hear her. She thinks about Stiles, alive, and happy – or at least happy-ish. She thinks about the future that was ripped away from her here.

            The portal begins to open, a swirling mass in the Hale house, and Lydia sets a timer on her phone for two hours.

            Peter certainly isn’t expecting her to jump through the portal with him.

 

* * *

 

 

           

            With the portal still roaring behind her, Peter Hale swears at the sight of her.

            “You weren’t supposed – “

            But Lydia is already running towards the nearest road, the two hours already beginning to tick away.

            She flies out into the road, and is almost run over by a blue jeep.

            “Lydia?” two voices shout, and Lydia stops and stares.

            It’s Scott and – _Stiles_. Blissfully, beautifully alive, staring at her in confusion.

            Stiles is jumping out of the jeep in the next second, his hands fluttering at her. They’re warm, and _real_. He’s alive.

            She throws her arms around him and crushes him to her, burying her face into his shoulder.

            “Um – Lydia are you feeling okay?” Stiles asks, “I’m assuming you felt the great disturbance -“

            She knows he’s talking about the portal.

            “Don’t worry about the portal,” she says, and then Scott and Stiles both take a look at her. They’re younger, she realizes, they can’t be out of high school.

            “You look – different.”

            “I’m really sorry about this,” she says, time has already passed. So she punches Stiles in the face, and kicks Scott in the balls before climbing in the Jeep and slamming on the ignition.

            She picks up Stiles’ phone in the cup holder and sends a quick text to Lydia (well the other Lydia).

            The reply comes back almost instantly, and Lydia alters her direction.

            _She has a mission to complete._

* * *

 

 

            “Stiles what’s – “ the other Lydia begins when she pulls up to the curb, but cuts off abruptly when she sees that a slightly older version of herself in the driver’s seat.

            “Lydia?” Lydia says, feeling rather _weird_ , “This is going to sound insane, but I’m from a different universe.”

            “What?” this Lydia looks youthful, like she did in high school, but all of her arrogance had been washed away by events Lydia herself hadn’t gone through.

            “Lydia, in my universe Stiles died. And Allison lived, because apparently she’s dead in this world – but he _died_. And our time was cut short. I’m here because I don’t want you to do the same.”

            “Time together?” the other Lydia splutters, “I’m _not_ in love with Stiles.”

            “I think we both know that’s a lie,” Lydia says, her timer ticking away, “but just – tell him Lydia. For the love of god, for the love of heels and makeup – tell him. Because trust me – you don’t want to lose him.”

            She drives the Jeep furiously back to the portal, her job done.

 

* * *

 

 

**_our lydia_ **

****

He’s gripping her hands tightly, “Lydia – you’ll forget me,” he says, or maybe he says _don’t_ _forget_ _me_ , but it doesn’t really matter anymore.

            _tell him. because trust me, you don’t want to lose him._

“I won’t,” she promises.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i am not going to lie i cried while writing this  
> (my tumblr is sagexbrush)


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